


How Arbitrary Fate Is

by withthekeyisking



Series: Sladick Fics [18]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: BAMF Dick Grayson, BAMF Koriand'r, Blackmail, Child Murder, Conditioning, Creepy Slade Wilson, Day 5, Dick Grayson is Renegade, Evil Slade Wilson, Gen, Good Friend Roy Harper, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Kinda, Loss of Control, Loss of Identity, Manipulative Slade Wilson, Minor Dick Grayson/Koriand'r, Murder, Open Ending, Protective Bruce Wayne, Sensory Deprivation, SladeRobin Week, SladeRobin Week 2019, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-05 19:21:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21213755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: The weight of the blade is familiar, and so is the spray of blood he skillfully avoids getting splashed by as he slits his target's throat. He watches for long enough to make sure the woman is dead, that he's done his job, before vanishing out the window.These deaths don't affect him, not anymore. Slade forced that reaction out of him years ago.What if the Titans hadn't figured it all out and gone to rescue Robin? What if Dick spent weeks, months,yearsas Deathstroke's apprentice?





	How Arbitrary Fate Is

**Author's Note:**

> SladeRobin Week 2019 Day 5: **Apprentice** | Auction
> 
> My thanks to [nxttime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nxttime) for acting as my editor while I screamed about how much I had to do <3
> 
> Title from _Gotta Be A Reason_ by Alec Benjamin, which I definitely recommend checking out

Dick sometimes wonders what he would've been doing had life gone differently.

He's twenty years old, as of forty-two seconds ago. Would he be attending college? Would he be interning at Wayne Enterprises, learning the company he would then one day inherit? Would he still be running across rooftops, taking down villains? Would he be _ happy?_

They're pointless questions to ask, he knows. But as he enters another year of his life—

_ (in six months, two weeks, and three days, Dick will have spent five years at Slade's side, only one year less than he was at Bruce's)_

—he can't help but wonder, can't help but picture things that might have been, picture the things that _ would've _ been, if he was at the Manor right now. Alfred's famous chocolate cake, a few (too extravagant) presents from Bruce, the feeling of safety and _ home _ that always follows whenever they were all together.

It's utterly pointless to think about.

_ "Boy." _ His comm crackles to life, Slade's voice echoing in his ear. _ "It's time for training. I have something for you."_

Dick's lips twist in a parody of a smile; Slade's gifts are always far different _ (more violent, more practical, more dangerous) _ than Bruce's ever were. Bruce's gifts were...

He shakes his head and heads out of his room, down the hall—it's completely pointless to consider.

* * *

_Robin has been at Slade's side for three weeks when the man finally tires of his backtalk._

_ Frankly, Robin's a little surprised it's taken this long, considering how disrespectful he's become at some points. How belligerent, how argumentative. And the longer it goes on, with Slade only taking the bare minimum of action against Robin for his resistance, Robin keeps pushing his luck, his pride pushing him forward, his anger fanning the flame._

_ When it happens, it's very sudden. They're sparring, training, and Slade makes a correction. It's a small comment, it's a comment a _ teacher _ would give, and Robin snarks back at him, saying something he doesn't even completely remember. It's an insult, that he knows. A sneer at Slade's abilities._

_ And then suddenly he's on the ground, his face burning from how hard Slade hit him, far harder than their simple spar calls for. Before he can regain his bearings, Slade has him very effectively pinned, one hand closing around Robin's throat._

_ "I grow weary of your temper, Robin," Slade says lowly, his mask mere inches from Robin's face. Robin gasps for air, one hand clawing at Slade's grip, the other pinned uselessly under one of Slade's knees. "I had decided to give you time to adjust, but I see now that that was pointless—y__ou do not learn on your own, so I will have to _ force _ the lesson into you."_

_ Slade yanks him abruptly to his feet and Robin sputters as soon as his neck is released, sucking in deep gulps of air. Slade takes this moment of breathlessness to twist one of Robin's arms up painfully behind his back, forcing the young hero to walk forward to release some of the pressure and avoid having his shoulder dislocated._

_ It's simple instinct that has Robin attempting to twist out of the hold, but he falls still when Slade sends a sharp jab against Robin's stomach, making the muscles spasm in pain._

_ "Where are we going?" Robin asks through gritted teeth._

_ Slade's only response is another jab and a barked, "Quiet."_

_ Robin follows the instruction, wary of another hit he can avoid._

_ Eventually they stop in front of a metal door, which Slade unlatches and then shoves Robin inside. He looks around, examining the bare cement walls and floors, the rusted sink, the bucket on the floor._

_ He turns back around, narrowing his eyes at Slade. "What is this?"_

_ "When I return," Slade says smoothly, ignoring the question, "you will apologize. If I do not believe you are sincere, then I will leave again. We will then repeat this process until I am satisfied."_

_ "Wait, you're just—y__ou're just going to _ leave?" _ Robin replies incredulously. "You can't—"_

_ "I can," Slade interrupts coolly. "You have proved yourself incapable of respect. You are consistently insubordinate, and frankly I have run out of patience. You will learn, or you will suffer the consequences." He glances around the room, and then begins to turn away. "Goodbye, apprentice."_

_ He slams the door shut behind him, and Robin is left in darkness._

_ Batman trained him to resist various forms of torture, and sensory deprivation was one of them. Robin hates to admit it, but this has always been the one he struggled the most with. He hates that Slade probably knows that, probably knows everything about him._

_ Time passes. Robin keeps his mind busy, the way Batman taught him. He goes through the cases he was working on before everything happened with Slade. He relives the plots of his favorite books and TV shows. He makes plans for what he'll get the Titans for Christmas._

_ But that can only ever last so long, when there's nothing but darkness and silence._

_ He keeps track of time the best he can._

_ He loses the count somewhere around twelve hours._

_ It doesn't stop._

_ It doesn't—_

_ The clang of the door, when it comes, is painful. Nothing but the sound of his own breaths for so very long and suddenly its _ clang bang wretch scream _ is almost unbearable, just like the light that pours into the room._

_ Robin slams his eyes shut, cringing away, hands flying up to cover his ears._

_ "Hello, Robin."_

_ Slade's voice, normally so smooth, grates like broken glass on Robin's hypersensitive ears, and he bites back a sound of pain._

_ "Are you ready to apologize?"_

_ Apologize. Right. For his backtalk, for his rudeness. That's why he was put in this place. Why he's spent so much time _ (how long? how long has he been in here?) _ in this empty place. His pride almost keeps his mouth shut, but he's absolutely done with his place, this room. He wants _ out, _ and that trumps a little bit of a bruised ego._

_ "I'm sorry," Robin croaks out._

_ Slade hums, considering._

_Then he says, "Not nearly good enough. I'll see you later, apprentice."_

_ Robin's head snaps up just in time to see Slade once again close the door, plunging him once more into darkness and silence._

_ Robin sings to himself, an old Romani lullaby his mama used to sing, but eventually that dies out. He moves on to the pop songs Beast Boy loves, but when his throat starts to ache he's forced to stop, quiet falling again._

_ He tries to keep his mind busy._

_ He fails._

_ Time ticks on and on. He starts to see things in the dark, shadows and nightmares and demons he knows aren't real but move and shift around him nonetheless._

_ It doesn't end._

_ It doesn't end._

_ It won't ever—_

Clang, bang, wrench, scream.

_ "Please," Robin breathes._

_ "Do you have something to say, apprentice?" Slade asks, and Robin cringes away from the loudness, tries to force himself upright. His muscles protest, having spent far too long in one position, but he manages to prop himself up, leaning heavily against the wall._

_ "I'm sorry, Slade. I'm—I__'m sorry I was..." He tries to remember why he was in here. "I was disrespectful, and I am _ sorry. _ Please, let me out."_

_ Slade doesn't say anything. Robin's heart pounds in his chest. His stomach has started to rebel, cramping after so long without food. How long? How long has he been in this room?_

_ "I still think you can do better."_

_ "No, Slade, _ please—" _ Robin tries, but the door's already slamming shut again._

_ Robin slides back down the wall and tucks his head against his knees._

_ Around him, the shadows begin to scream._

_ He starts hallucinating Batman, Alfred, Starfire, his team. Sometimes they beg him to come home, sometimes they scream about what a failure he is. Sometimes they tell him he's better off where he is, that he's nothing to them. Sometimes Star pets his hair and tells him it's alright._

_ When the door _ clangs bangs wrenches screams _ open again, admitting Slade, Robin wonders for a moment if it's just another hallucination, just one more product of his sensory-deprived mind._

_ "Hello again, Robin," Slade purrs. "You're not looking too well."_

_ "I'm sorry," Robin says. "Please let me out, I'm sorry, _ fuck, _ I'm so sorry, Slade. I won't—I__'m not going to talk back like before, I promise, please, Slade, let me out. I'm sorry."_

_ Slade hums. "You're missing something very crucial in your apology, apprentice."_

_ Panic floods Robin's veins. _No, don't leave again, please don't leave again—

_ "I—I_ _ don't understand, I'm sorry, Slade, please let me out."_

_ "What should you be calling me?" Slade prompts magnanimously._

_ Robin goes still as he understands what the man wants. But he can't—h__e can't call Slade that, can't give the man that power. He might be stuck here but Slade's not his m—w__on't _ ever _ be his—_

_ "I'm sorry," Robin tries again. "Please, let me out."_

_ "Goodbye Robin."_

_ Robin groans and slams his fist on the ground, squeezing his eyes shut like that could let him escape the darkness._

_ It won't ever end._

_ It's never going to end._

_ It's—_

_ His body aches, his stomach practically screams at him, his eyes are burning, his throat feels like gravel. The hallucinations are ever present now. He just wants it to stop, please, please, _ please _ make it stop—_

Clang bang wrench scream.

_ "Hello, apprentice."_

_ "Master," Robin breathes, no longer giving a shit about his pride._

_ "Good boy," Slade purrs, and when the man strokes an approving hand through his hair _ (too much sensation, it's too much, too much too much too much—) _ Robin passes out, and feels nothing but relief._

* * *

The weight of the blade is familiar, and so is the spray of blood he skillfully avoids getting splashed by as he slits his target's throat. He watches for long enough to make sure the woman is dead, that he's done his job, before vanishing out the window.

These deaths don't affect him, not anymore. Slade forced that reaction out of him years ago.

It's a crisp night in New York, and Dick takes a moment to lift his face to the sky, staring up at the few visible stars and breathing in the fresh autumn air, just slightly filtered through the cloth of his mask.

He has another forty-five minutes before he has to check in, so Dick heads across the rooftops, pulling out his grapple mid-leap, enjoying the moment of freefall before sending a line and getting caught, swinging through the air towards the next building.

He tells himself he doesn't have a destination in mind, but he _ does _ try to not live in denial, so when he's within a block of his destination he forces himself to admit what he's doing, that his path through the city isn't an accident.

Her apartment light is on. He settles in on the roof across the street, and ignores the fact that the cement beneath his feet shows clear signs of someone coming here quite a lot, sitting in this space, the perfect view into the apartment building across the street. He ignores the coffee cup someone forgot the last time they were here.

He _ tries _ to not live in denial, but some things still slip by.

Then he sees her, and all thoughts of denial slip from his mind.

Koriand'r looks just as amazing as the last time he checked in on her, a few months ago. She's on the phone at the moment, smiling at whatever the person on the other line is saying. Dick wonders if it's the boy she started seeing a little while back, if he's telling her a funny story or complimenting her, or if they're making plans.

_ (When Kori went on the first date with the guy, Dick did his research. He wanted to make sure she wasn't settling, that she was spending her time with someone _ worthy _ of her. And from what he found about Andrew Young, twenty-two, native New Yorker, is that he is a genuinely good guy. Takes classes at a local community college while he teaches self-defense classes and looks after his little sister._

_ Andrew Young isn't perfect, but no one is, and he makes Kori smile. So as long as he continues to make her happy, then Dick gives them his blessing._

_ Not that he can tell them that, of course. But it's a good thing for him to know, himself.)_

Dick allows himself to sit and watch her for twenty-five minutes, rememorizing the curve of her smile, the crinkle of her eyes as she laughs, and then forces himself to his feet. The next time he has a job in New York, he'll be back to check in, but for now he heads off into the night.

He's four rooftops away when he feels someone behind him, and he doesn't have to turn around to know who it is, doesn't need to see the green glow out of the corner of his eye to understand who followed him.

"Hello, Shadow," Kori says softly.

Dick's heart leaps in his chest. It's been so long since he's heard her voice in person, so long since he's been this close to her.

He should leave. He _ knows _ he should leave. After almost five years at Slade's side, Dick's learned. He knows better than to linger here; his master would whip him if he knew Dick spent time watching Kori, let _ alone _ if he knew Dick actually _ interacted _ with her.

Very slowly, Dick turns around, coming face-to-face with Starfire for the first time since that fateful day so long ago. It's like a whole other life, and Dick is unbelievably relieved for his mask.

It's different from one she ever saw him in. It doesn't cover his eyes, but his nose and the lower half of his face.

_ (When Slade first gave it to him, Dick made a comment of it being like a muzzle. Slade had simply smirked at him, and said nothing. They both understood anyway.)_

He doesn't say anything. He knows his mask would distort his voice slightly, but he's still afraid, his pulse speeding up. She can't know who he is. He should leave.

But _ fuck, _ he's missed her.

"Shadow?" he echoes questioningly _ (stupid, stupid, stupid—)_

Kori drifts slightly closer, stopping about twenty feet away, and lands on the roof, her glowing hands going out.

"I do not know how long you have been watching me," she says, "but I have noticed your presence a few times. You never approach, you never attack, you simply sit in the darkness and watch, following me." She cocks her head. "Why?"

Her tone isn't confrontational, simply curious.

Dick says nothing.

Kori's brow furrows and her eyes flick up and down his figure. Whatever she sees makes her tense, her chin raising. "You are Renegade," she announces, her voice just a bit shy of accusatory. "Deathstroke's accomplice. Has he sent you to spy on me?"

Her hands begin to glow again. She looks beautiful and powerful and every bit the strong leader he always knew she had the potential to become.

"No," Dick murmurs, "he didn't."

He needs to leave. He needs to get out of here before he does something stupid, before he gives something away. To the rest of the world, Robin is dead. _Dick Grayson _ is dead. He can't ruin that, not after four and a half years.

"Then _ why?" _ Kori insists.

Dick needs to _ leave._

He doesn't move.

"To make sure you're alright."

_ That _ startles her enough that her starbolts go out, leaving her blinking at him in confusion. "I do not understand."

_ Leave, Dick. It is time to leave. The more you interact, the more she'll know. You need to leave. You only have ten minutes before you have to check in with Slade, and this is not worth the punishment for being late._

"A dead man's last request," Dick tells her, ignoring himself.

Kori's eyes light up with old pain and she straightens, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.

"When?" she demands, and Dick understands what she means; the world knows_ (thinks) _ Robin died, but they've never known precisely when.

"I don't know exactly," he says, _ but he does, he knows the exact moment Robin died, he knows— _"but just about four years ago."

Kori grimaces, face lined with grief, and Dick tilts his face away, not wanting to see. He needs to leave.

"Did he suffer?" Kori asks, and her voice is so _ small _ that it breaks his heart.

_ Yes, he did. He felt trapped and scared and angry and helpless. He was locked in pitch black rooms and whipped with a spiked rope and pushed until his body broke. He was pushed until his mind broke. He was pushed until he accepted his place._

"You don't want the answer," he says softly, and then he shoots his grapple, swinging off into the night.

She doesn't follow him, fading into the background of New York.

He doesn't know if he's relieved or disappointed.

He knows that after all this time, it really doesn't matter.

* * *

_"What's going on?" Robin asks warily, eyes flicking over the scene in front of him._

_ Slade's leaning against the wall casually, attention on the datapad in his hand, finger flicking across the screen. Such a sight isn't that unusual, but it's the other occupants of the room that give Robin pause._

_ There's a man bound to a chair by his ankles and wrists, a cloth gag in his mouth. There's a bit of dried blood under his nose and at one of his temples, and dried tear tracks down his cheeks. He's shaking faintly, eyes darting over to Slade every few seconds in fear. He looks at Robin imploringly, but Robin pulls his attention away, focusing on the other three people._

_ They're children, a boy and two girls. They don't look any older than six, huddling together on the floor a couple feet away from Slade. They're shaking, too, looking scared out of their minds, and it makes Robin's stomach turn with anxiety._

_ "Open it," Slade says, nodding towards a wooden box on the table right next to the mercenary. "Pick up what's inside."_

_ Hesitantly, Robin does as he's told. After five months here he knows how to pick his battles, and this simple instruction isn't worth digging in his heels, not by a long shot._

_ His breath catches when he sees what's inside the box, and his eyes cut over to Slade as his pulse picks up. "What is this?" he asks lowly._

_ Slade, the bastard, decides to take his question literally. "It's a _ gun, _ Robin. I would hope that after acting as a hero for so long you'd be familiar with them. Now, pick it up."_

_ Robin doesn't move. Slade's eye narrows dangerously. "Pick it up, apprentice."_

_ His voice holds a note of warning. Robin swallows, and wraps his hand around the grip, pulling it from the box._

_ Batman hates guns with a passion, but he still taught Robin how to use them, so while the weight is unfamiliar—he hasn't held once since B taught him, _ years _ ago—he at least knows how to carry it properly, automatically checking if the safety is on._

_ (It is. For now.)_

_ "What now?" he asks quietly, afraid of the answer._

_ Slade looks towards the bound man. "Our guest is Jeremy Evans, fifty-four years old. He is a registered pedophile, having molested and raped twelve children, all under the age of eight." He directs his gaze back towards the hero. "Ask me why he's here, Robin."_

_ Robin's throat feels dry, but fire licks at his belly, hearing what this man has done. "Why is he here?"_

_ "Because you are going to aim that gun at him and shoot him dead."_

_ Robin recoils, almost dropping the gun as he takes a few steps back. "No! No, I don't kill. I can't—"_

_ "You can," Slade interrupts smoothly. "And you will." He tilts his head to the side. "Would you like me to list the names of his victims, would that help you along? This is a despicable human being, one who has spent his years abusing helpless children. The system let him go, releasing him back into the world to continue raping kids. And you think he deserves to live?"_

_ He can hear Batman in his mind, saying that it's not their place to decide, that they can't be judge, jury, and executioner. They have no right to play god. They don't kill._

_ "That's not up to me," Robin says forcefully. "It's not up to you, either. He might be a horrible human being, but I'm _ not _ going to kill him. I won't."_

_ "It is up to us," Slade disagrees immediately. "You know why? Because I _ say so. _ Here he is, at our mercy. It is _ completely _ up to us what happens to him. Now shoot him, Robin."_

_ Robin knows when to pick his battles. This is one of them. He can't kill this man, he _ can't. _ He can't go against everything Batman's taught him, everything Batman stands for. Slade might control him right now, but he can't betray Batman._

_ "No."_

_ Slade sighs and pulls a gun from his hip, pointing it at the children. Robin hears the safety click off. His heart thuds loudly._

_ "Let's put it _ this _ way, then," Slade purrs. "Either you shoot Mr. Evans, or I shoot one of these three here."_

_ Robin stares at him in horror, eyes darting down to the kids, huddled together in terror. He looks back to Slade incredulously. "Sl—_Master, _ you can't be serious."_

Bang.

_ The two remaining children scream as blood sprays across them, scrambling away from the dead child they'd just moments before been clinging to._

_ Robin feels his stomach churn, threatening to revolt, staring down at the little girl. She can't be more than six years old, with short brown hair pulled up into pigtails. And now she's dead._

_ "Are you going to question me again, or are you going to do as you're told?" Slade asks, completely unbothered by the murder he just committed._

_ In the background, the two children sob and whimper, curling in on themselves as if to make smaller targets._

_ Robin wants to ask Slade how he could do that, how he could stomach shooting a _ child _ in the head for absolutely no reason, but he's afraid that if he opens his mouth, Slade will just shoot another one to make a point._

_ "Well?" Slade prompts further. "Who else is going to die tonight, Robin? Your choice."_

_ Robin stares at him, silently begging him to reconsider, to change his mind, but Slade simply stares passively back, gun pointed at the two remaining children._

_ Either Robin kills the man, or another child dies._

_ He stares down at the weapon in his hand, his grip tightening around it. It's not like this is a _ good _ man, or anything. He's a pedophile, a convicted one, a repeat offender. He'll be saving an innocent life by killing a man who is irredeemable. Bruce couldn't hate him for that, could he? A six-year-old kid versus a rapist?_

_ And Robin _ knows _ Slade chose this man on purpose. It's to make it _ easier _ on him, to allow him to rationalize this far more simply than he could if it was someone who didn't deserve it at all._

_ This is Slade opening the door a crack, getting Robin to kill in a justifiable way. But it's a slippery slope, and one Robin knows Slade intends to push him down._

_ He doesn't have a choice. He doesn't have a choice. He doesn't have a—_

_ Robin flicks the safety off, lifts the gun, aims, and fires, one bullet hitting Jeremy Evans in the head. It's not dead center—Robin hasn't worked with guns _ _enough to be a perfect shot—but it hits, and it kills._

_ The silence that follows is deafening._

_"You're going to need a new name," Slade tells him proudly, stepping closer. "You aren't Robin, not anymore. Not ever again."_

_ He doesn't have the energy to argue. He stares at the slumped form of Jeremy Evans and whispers, "Yes, Master."_

_ Slade places an approving hand on his shoulder, and the young hero feels himself die a little bit inside._

* * *

"Report."

It's the first thing out of Slade's mouth when Dick arrives back at their current safehouse. Not that Dick expects anything else, really. It's the way Slade is; a brief check-in over comms after the mission is complete _ (he made sure Kori truly hadn't followed him before making the call) _ and then a full run-down once they're together in person.

It used to be far more thorough, far more interrogative. Now, it's old hat, and Slade no longer has to force him to relive any of it. Dick runs through it all as he cleans his blade, Slade not looking up from whatever it is he's working on on his laptop.

When Dick finishes talking _ (leaving out the run-in with Kori, doing his best to keep his heartbeat calm just in case Slade's enhanced senses pick up on it), _ Slade turns to face him, eye flicking up and down his form.

A few years ago, the sight of Slade's bare face would've sent a thrill through Dick, a shock at seeing what the man who'd consumed his thoughts looked like. Now, just like these check-ins, it's familiar, not even worth the bat of an eye.

A few years ago, removing his mask in front of Slade would've _ (and had) _ sent him into a panic. Now he shows his bare face without hesitation, the time for secrecy long since passed.

"So the gift served you well, then."

Dick twirls the knife in his hand, looking down at it. Yes, it had _ served him well. _ Perfectly balanced, excellently sharpened, practically silent in and out of its leather sheath. It's an amazing weapon, as most of his _ birthday presents _ are, and made the kill extremely easy.

A few years ago, such a kill would've made Dick vomit. _ That _ time has long since passed, too.

"Yes," Dick agrees, "it did." He flips the knife around a few more times, examining the unique markings along the handle, and then asks, "League of Shadows made, right?"

A pleased smile tilts Slade's lips. "Good eye."

Dick smiles back at the praise, no longer feeling guilty for it making him happy. He doesn't have the emotional or mental capacity to keep that up. It's simply not worth it, not four and a half years along. He belongs to Slade, and that's all there is to it.

He dips his head in a thankful nod, though it isn't that big a deal that he recognized it; two years ago he spent a couple months with the League, learning from them as Slade (apparently) once had.

As _ Bruce _ once had.

"That's all," Slade says, turning back to his computer. "Feel free to head to bed."

Dick frowns at him. "We're not catching a plane out of here tonight?"

Years back, a question like that would've been considered insubordinate, looked at like Dick was doubting Slade's orders. Now, Slade doesn't even blink at the request for more information; they both know he's not attempting to argue. They both know Dick will follow his orders no matter what.

"No, tomorrow morning; I have something to finish up here. Get some rest, Richard."

Dick just nods, the use of his real name no longer startling or unusual.

There's a lot past-him would hate about current-him. Dick can't find the effort to care, not anymore.

"Goodnight, Master."

* * *

_Slade is, shockingly, not a bad teacher._

_ Certainly condescending, often harsher than he needs to be, but his corrections are helpful and his demonstrations thorough. Slade is detail-focused and incredibly observant, which means he always spots Robin's—R__enegade's—R__ichard's—_Dick's _ flaws and goes after them with vigor, making sure his apprentice knows what he's done wrong and is making steps to correct it._

_ (He hasn't been called Richard since the last time he spoke to Alfred, and suddenly Slade's using his name, using it like he's never called Rob—_Dick _ anything else, like he's always known Dick's secret identity._

_ Slade hadn't said anything when Dick went rigid the first time Slade called him that, but the smirk showing in his eye clearly conveyed he knew what he was doing.)_

_ From his time in the circus, and then his time with Batman, Dick knows a lot of languages. Not fluent in all of them, but certainly enough to get by in a conversation, and he feels relieved when even _ Slade _ seems impressed by the sheer amount of languages he can speak passingly._

_ Of course, Slade wants him to be more than _ passable _ in the fifteen-odd languages he knows, and begins his lessons in fluency, accepting nothing less than perfection, just like in everything else._

_ So along with his physical training (improving upon his already impressive skills, adding in moves that are far more lethal than anything Dick is comfortable with) he begins his mental, holding conversations in language after language, cycling through them until he can switch mid-sentence without even a hitch in his breath._

_ Training continues, on and on and on for months. And as soon as Slade begins to be satisfied with something Dick's doing, he adds in something else for the young boy to learn, building upon skills and lessons already there, shaping Dick into something he wants._

_ And Dick tries his best not to complain, knowing he doesn't have any ground to stand on, not after he killed that man. He's a murderer now. And he knows he'll be a murderer again. What does it really matter if he learns how to do it more safely?_

_ He's been with Slade for just under a year when Slade finally introduces a new lesson that gives Dick pause._

_ "You...must be joking."_

_ Slade backhands him lazily, no heat behind it, and his head snaps to the side with the force of the blow. Dick grits his teeth and looks back to Slade, trying to keep his breathing even as he says what he knows he's expected to say._

_ "I apologize for questioning you, Master." The words roll of his tongue far more simply than they did ten months ago. "I just don't understand."_

_ "There will be jobs where you have to go undercover," Slade tells him matter-of-factly, but there's an undercurrent of amusement in his voice, something _ mocking, _ that has Dick resisting the urge to bristle. "This is something that might come up on those missions, and you need to be prepared." He tilts his head. "Unless there's something you're not telling me about your...experience?"_

_ Dick's cheeks flame red. He doesn't want to dignify that question with a response, especially because anything he says would simply amuse Slade even further._

_ No, he doesn't have any..._experience. _ He's had his first kiss, but...nothing past that. He thought maybe he and Starfire, one day, could be something more. But then all this happened, and that dream went right down the drain._

_ Still, the idea of having someone _ train him _ in these areas in case he needs to flirt or sleep with someone on a mission makes his stomach clench uncomfortably._

_ He never would've imagined _ this _ is how his first time would go, clinical and as a lesson, just like every other aspect of his life._

_ "Who...?" Dick asks, his voice trailing off. He knows it probably won't make this any easier, but he wants to know, part of him afraid that Slade will list himself for the task._

_ Thankfully, Slade doesn't mock him over the question. "A woman and a man I've worked with before," he tells him, "both quite skilled at getting close to their opponents, and you need to learn how to handle both genders." That hint of a smirk comes back. "Don't worry; they're both aware all of this is extremely new to you—t__hey'll be _gentle."

_ Dick scowls to cover up his severe embarrassment._

_ (And his severe anxiety.)_

_ It's a few days later when the woman arrives. She's in her mid-twenties, maybe, with auburn hair and bright blue eyes. She's gorgeous, really, and the smile on her face is easy and open when she greets both Slade and Dick._

_ "Hi," she says kindly, eyes gentle, and it almost takes Dick's breath away after spending so long with Slade as his only company, the man most certainly far from _ kind _ or _ gentle. _ "I'm Allison. You must be Richard."_

_ She offers her hand to shake, and Dick takes it. He knows he probably shouldn't be, but he's still surprised by the firm grip and calluses on her hand, the pattern showing her familiarity with weapons._

_ Skilled at getting close to her opponents, Slade had said. Yes, Dick can definitely see that; she's so far been very good at lowering his defenses, the calluses his jerk back to reality._

_ "Hi," he returns, more faintly than he would like._

_ "Slade, go away," Allison says, her tone brokering no argument, and Dick actually _ gapes _ when his master gives a mocking bow and leaves._

_ "You'll have to teach me that, too," Dick says wryly, and his heart flutters when Allison laughs._

* * *

Six months, two weeks, and three days later, they "celebrate" the five-year anniversary of Dick being Slade's apprentice by robbing Wayne Enterprises.

Never let it be said Slade doesn't have a sense of humor.

A week after that is when Dick learns about the new Robin.

They're in Gotham, having been hired by the Penguin to take out some rival opponent. They don't come to Gotham often—this will only be the fourth time in five years—because Slade doesn't like presenting Dick with any possible temptation.

_(As if Dick still thinks "escape" is possible; as if there would be any point in tracking down Bruce and asking for help.)_

Dick allows himself a few moments to breathe in the stale Gotham air and smile; he might know that he can never come back here permanently, but he'll never turn down the opportunity to enjoy the city he loves.

He mostly tunes out Cobblepot while the man goes on and on, and knows Slade well enough to see that his master is doing the same. But halfway through his speech on superiority or whatever the fuck he's talking about, he says something that jerks Dick back into the conversation.

"...and that little brat the Bat's got following him around has certainly not helped the problem any."

Dick twitches. His heart speeds up in his chest. Slade doesn't miss either of these reactions.

"Brat?" Slade prompts, his tone that of someone mildly curious, almost _ bored, _ but Dick's hanging on every word, and he _ knows _ his master knows he is.

Cobblepot nods, sneers. "Yes, the new one dressed up in those obnoxious colors. I must say, he's very different from his predecessor; the differences are _ startling." _ He cocks his head. "Did you really not know about this Robin? The new birdie has been hopping along after the Bat for almost a year now."

There's a rushing in Dick's ears, blocking out all other sound. He feels numb. He feels disconnected.

There's a new Robin. There's a new kid running around in his colors, using his mother's nickname for him. Bruce has taken in a new kid. _ Bruce has replaced him._

It could be seconds or hours later when a hand lands on his elbow and nudges him forward. Dick lets himself be pushed along with ease, barely seeing anything in front of him, and the cold air hit him suddenly, the earlier February weather chilling his lungs, only slightly cut down by his mask.

"Renegade."

Dick blinks heavily, then tilts his face up towards the familiar voice. Everything is still blurry, but he recognizes the black and orange mask in front of him, even as distorted as it is.

"Breathe," Slade tells him, and Dick follows the instruction, but all he can think about is the kid going around Gotham taking down criminals, using the name Robin. All he can think about is Bruce replacing him.

_ Well you failed him, didn't you? _a voice in his head reminds him bitterly. _ Of course he wanted a new Robin; you broke. You died. You were a soldier, and you failed, and now he's chosen someone who will do better than you ever did._

The sting of the blow snaps him back into reality, sight and sound suddenly coming into startling clarity.

Dick sucks in a sharp breath, blinking rapidly, and then settles, working on calming down. Slapping him certainly isn't the most _ polite _ of ways to snap him out of what could probably be called a panic attack, but it's certainly effective.

"You with me?"

"He replaced me," Dick murmurs needlessly.

Slade's impassive behind his mask. "Yes," he says simply. Dick swallows the pain that easy acknowledgment spikes in him. "Do you have it together, Renegade, or shall I hit you again?"

Almost against his will, Dick cracks a smile at the words. "I have it together; I can finish the job."

They do, indeed, finish the job. It's practically a walk in the park, really, the rival mobster never even seeing them coming, and there isn't a single spotting of Batman or the new Robin.

Many hours later, once they're back at their base with everything put away, Dick looks at Slade and asks, "Can we spar?"

Slade cocks his head, examining him, and then nods. There's a faint smirk at the corners of his lips that says he knows what Dick is doing, what he's _after, _ but certainly doesn't mind.

Dick needs to hit something. And he needs to be hit. Luckily, Slade's never had a problem hitting him.

They spar until Dick is aching all over, until his legs are trembling with exertion and he knows he'll be black and blue tomorrow. They spar until Dick is too tired to remember that Bruce has chosen another partner, has chosen another son, has truly forgotten him.

They spar until Dick is too numb to feel the pain of it.

* * *

_When Dick first started living at the Manor, he got nightmares a lot, his dreams haunted by the sight of his parents' broken bodies on the ground far below him._

_ Bruce always understood (he was haunted by his dead parents, too) and let him climb into bed with him, knowing the child in his care got so much comfort by simply being close to someone._

_ Living with Slade, nightmares are handled very differently._

_ He wakes up, his heart racing in his chest to the beat of a half-remembered dream where Bruce and Alfred were killed by his hand. He lies there in his bed for a moment, trying to convince himself he's fine, but he knows he won't be going back to sleep anytime soon._

You're no son of mine,_ the Bruce from his dream snarls, the words echoing in Dick's mind, and he shudders, throwing the blankets off of him and getting to his feet. He takes a quick shower to wash off the sweat the dream drenched him in, and then changes into light workout clothes before making his way to the gym._

_ For his seventeenth birthday, Slade installed a trapeze set for him, one of the few genuinely _ nice _ things the man's ever done. Dick uses it very rarely—h__is master keeps him busy—b__ut in times like this he can't resist, needing the familiarity of being in the air, on a set so similar to the one he used at Haly's._

I am ashamed of who you've become,_ the Alfred from his dream scolds, and Dick almost misses the platform as he tosses himself through the air without a net._

_ He pushes himself harder and harder and harder. He wants to spar, but waking Slade would be stupid for a number of reasons, and the man's more likely to mock him than actually provide relief._

_ Dick doesn't know when sparring, when getting _ hurt, _ started providing him with relief instead of simply being painful. By this point, Dick's probably a therapist's wet dream with all the insane things in his head. The insane things Slade brought out in him. _ Made _ in him._

_ It was Bruce's birthday yesterday. Dick hopes it was a good one._

_ "Richard."_

_ Dick almost misses the next bar as the voice startles him, his fingers just barely wrapping around it, and he swings himself up and around, perching on top of it on the balls of his feet. Far below him stands Slade, head tilted up towards his apprentice._

_ "Master," Dick murmurs respectfully. He should be in bed. They have a mission in a few hours, and Slade ordered him to rest. Instead he's here in the gym, working himself to exhaustion when he'll be needed in top shape very soon._

_ Slade crooks his fingers in a _ come here _ gesture. Dick withholds a sigh and does as he's told, making his way back to the ground._

_ His master looks him over critically for a moment, and then turns and walks across the gym towards the training room. Dick follows dutifully after him, wary of whatever punishment is coming for disobeying the order to sleep (even if he, too, really fucking wishes he was asleep)._

_ "You're supposed to be asleep," Slade reminds him unnecessarily when he stops walking, turning to face the teenager._

_ Dick lowers his gaze. "Yes, Master."_

_ A thoughtful pause, then, "A dream?"_

_ Dick bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn't want to admit to this weakness. Slade never takes weakness well. Dick has a good amount of scars (physical and otherwise) from learning that lesson._

_ He nods all the same. He's learned that lying is a worse offense._

_ His eyes still on the ground, he doesn't see the punch coming, and cries out when a fist slams into his stomach, knocking the air from him._

_ "You are not a mute," Slade reminds him calmly, "and you will speak when I ask you a question."_

_ "Yes, Master," Dick gasps. He forces himself to straighten, his stomach muscles cramping in complaint. "I apologize." The apology comes so simply now, just like the title. He's been here for over two years. He's never getting out. He's accepted it._

_ "Now, what was the dream about?"_

_ Dick's cheeks heat at the idea of telling Slade, really not wanting to hear the mocking he will certainly get for it, not wanting the derision when he already feels so shaky. Not-Bruce's words are still in his brain. He can still feel his blood on his hands. He can still see the look of betrayal in his eyes._

_ "I killed Bruce and Alfred," Dick tells him numbly._

_ Slade hums and tilts his head, then walks away. Dick watches him go in confusion, watching his master open one of the chests and pull out a pair of bo staffs. He tosses one to the boy, and Dick catches it effortlessly, brow furrowing._

_ "Well, don't keep me waiting," Slade instructs, twirling his own bo staff as he walks closer again. "Take a stance."_

_ Dick blinks at him. "I don't understand." He does as he's told, though. Slade hates repeating himself._

_ "I know you, apprentice," Slade tells him. "You push yourself too far when you think about what Wayne or your ex-teammates would think of you now. You want to be punished, even if you're not aware that's what you're doing." He takes a stance himself, smirking. "I'm happy to oblige."_

* * *

It's a rare occasion that Slade actively works with other villains, but there seems to be something special about the Society.

Dick, himself, is not a big fan of the Society for a number of reasons, the main one being that Talia al Ghul is a member of the council. Talia and her father are the only people other than Slade who know who _ Renegade _ truly is, and considering Talia's _ close _ relationship with Bruce, it never fails to make Dick uncomfortable. Especially considering the fact that Talia seems to take a certain level of pleasure from the whole situation.

Frankly, Dick thinks it's only a matter of time before Talia taunts Bruce about his first Robin and ends up giving something away. He knows Slade is cautious of this as well, but it's not like they can just _ kill _ Talia al Ghul. The League of Shadows is powerful and large, and not something they want to start a war with.

The location for meetings of the Society rotate, never in the same place for secrecy's sake, and this time they're in some hideout owned by Lex Luthor, under an alias of course.

(Dick doesn't like Luthor; he remembers him very well from his time with Bruce, both as Robin _ and _ Dick Grayson, and being in the same room as him, _working _ with him, leaves a sour taste in his mouth.)

(Not that what he wants matters much, or at all.)

He doesn't pay too much attention to what they discuss, a silent shadow behind Deathstroke. This isn't the first time he's attended a meeting of the council, won't be the last, and none of them bat an eye to his presence. Luthor has Mercy in the room with him too, and while that's not quite the same, it does open the window for member of the council to have a second there.

He catches Talia's eye a few times when he scans the room, a smirk tilting her lips, and he keeps his gaze impassive. She's always taken delight from the fact that Batman's Robin has gone to the dark side.

Well. Batman's _ first _ Robin.

The meeting is going rather routine, from what Dick gathers, no one present _ (Slade, Talia, Luthor, Black Adam, Doctor Psycho, the Calculator) _ making a fuss, right up until the windows shatter inward, heroes entering and on the attack.

Dick's heart is pounding, eyes wide as the fucking _ Justice League _ arrives, ready to fight. He doesn't know how they found them or why they've chosen _ now _ to go after the Society, but they're here now, and they certainly aren't here to talk.

Fighting beside Slade is effortless at this point, both of them knowing each other and their styles well enough that it's just the way it used to be with Bruce.

_ Bruce._

Batman is present, currently engaged with Mercy, and once Green Lantern is down—the person Deathstroke and Renegade have been fighting—the pair of mercenaries share a look, and immediately melt into the shadows.

Neither of them has any interest in being taken in with the rest of the Society, so they use the chaos of the fight to mask their escape, running far and fast, using every trick in the book to cover their tracks.

It's three days later that they actually head back to their main base instead of safehouses, confident in the knowledge that they've escaped.

It's three days after _ that _ that they're found.

Dick's in the training room when it happens. He's in his full Renegade uniform, testing out the flexibility of some new armor on his sides, twin blades in his hands as he goes through some simple movements, slowly working his way up and up. He hears a loud _ thud _ and goes still, straining his ears to hear more, and then a shout follows. A burst of gunfire.

He begins moving towards the door, running down the hallway towards the atrium where Slade last was. He doesn't even make it halfway there before he's stopped, Batman and Wonder Woman appearing in front of him.

Dick takes a cautious step back, examining his options, and has just decided to run back the way he came and loop around when he feels people behind him as well and tenses, glancing back to see Green Lantern and Aquaman.

This is not a fight he will win, especially not on his own.

He's still holding the twin blades, and he slowly raises his hands—ignoring the way the heroes around him tense at the movement—sliding the blades into their sheaths on his back. He then links his fingers behind his head and lowers himself to the ground, kneeling.

"Is Deathstroke dead?" he asks. He knows the Bat doesn't kill, but there's a lot of the Justice League that doesn't make that distinction, and it's possible—however unlikely—that his master is down permanently.

_ (And Dick doesn't know what he feels about the idea that Slade might be dead. The man is a bastard, cruel and sadistic and manipulative, but they've spent five years together at this point, and Dick is struggling to separate the emotions that brings out in him.)_

His mask distorts his voice enough that Bruce doesn't recognize it, and there's no familiarity in his ex-mentor's body language as Batman and Wonder Woman share a glance.

"No." It's Diana who answers. "But he has been taken into custody, as you shall be as well."

"Lantern, bind his hands behind his back," Batman orders.

"Got it."

Dick feels something circle his wrists, guiding them to his lower back and then securing there. He hears footsteps from behind him, walking closer, and then his swords are removed from his back. Aquaman then walks around him and hands the weapons to Batman, who looks them over with a critical eye.

"Are you carrying any other weapons?" Wonder Woman asks, and Dick withholds a snort.

"Many," he agrees, cracking a lopsided smile that none of they can see, save the crinkling of his eyes. "But I _ did _ surrender myself peacefully, and am currently incapable of actually _ using _ any weapons considering there's a Green Lantern construct keeping my hands behind my back."

Batman makes a noise that would probably seem thoughtful to those who didn't know him that well, but Dick hears the irony in it, and his smile fades as _ longing _ hits him.

"Stand," Batman instructs, and Dick does as he's told, then follows the heroes when they lead the way down the hall, towards the atrium, and then outside.

There's an armored van outside, one that Superman, Black Canary, and Martian Manhunter are currently loading Slade into. Part of Dick is a little smug about the fact that so many of the League came after just the two of them.

They lead Dick towards the van, those by it glancing over, their eyes flicking over their comrades and Dick.

"Didn't put up much of a fight, I see," Slade comments, seeing the lack of wounds over his apprentice.

Dick just sighs, suddenly feeling so very _ tired. _ It's been a very long five years, filled with pain and death and bending and _ breaking, _ and he's so done. He doesn't care what happens from here. He's just _ done._

"It's over, Deathstroke," Dick murmurs. "You lost. Just accept it."

"Oh, little bird," Slade purrs, "if you think this is the end, you're so _ very _ naïve."

Dick sees Batman twitch at the term of endearment, and knows that Slade doesn't miss it, either. The mercenary turns his attention towards the Bat, and his mask might be on but his smirk is clear nonetheless.

"It seems I have something of yours, Wayne," Slade taunts. "Look after him until I escape, would you?"

Batman has gone very, _ very _ still. He slowly turns to look at Dick, expression next to impossible to read underneath the cowl, but Dick can see the clenched jaw, the purse of his lips that means _ fear._

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Batman strides towards him, hand raising towards Dick's face. The gloved hand pauses, frozen in air, and then pulls Dick's mask off in one quick movement, revealing Dick's face to Batman for the first time in more than five years.

Dick sees Bruce's breath hitch, knows his eyes are wide underneath the cowl, and says, "Hi, dad."

* * *

_"Who knows? I might even become like a father to you."_

_ "I already have a father."_

* * *

Wayne Manor hasn't changed an inch, not even half a decade later.

He's terrifyingly _ relieved _ by that, by the familiarity of the gravel path and stone archways, the shiny, wood foyer floor and the sparkling glass chandelier up above. It smells just like the cleaner Alfred always uses, the air freshener he spritzes, the polish he uses so expertly.

It _ aches, _ how much he missed this place. He doesn't allow himself to think about it anymore, doesn't allow himself to _ long, _ because it's always been absolutely pointless. He was stuck with Slade. He was never going home.

But now here he is, standing in the grand entryway, not a single thing different from when he was here last, what feels like a lifetime ago.

Bruce enters behind him, shutting the door, and steps up silently beside him. He doesn't say anything, just lets Dick take it all in, watching him subtly from the corner of his eye.

"Where's Alfred?" Dick asks, voice quiet, unwilling to break the calm silence around them.

"He went to the store to pick up some things," Bruce says, and Dick can see a faint smile on his face. "He said he wants to make your favorite foods tonight."

Dick feels a burst of warmth for the butler, a smile pulling at his lips, too. His eyes sting, but he won't cry.

_ (The last time he cried, Slade locked him in darkness, telling him he couldn't come out until such weakness was behind him.)_

Dick shudders at the memory, and Bruce's head tilts questioningly towards him. The man opens his mouth, probably to ask, but then his cellphone rings. He pulls it out and frowns at it, then murmurs, "I'll be right back," striding away and greeting whoever is on the other line.

For a moment longer Dick just stands there, breathing calmly, and then he makes his way upstairs, walking down the long, familiar hallways towards his room.

He's almost there when a door opens and a boy steps out into the hall right in front of him.

The boy freezes, eyes wide as he spots Dick, and then seems to shake himself out of his shock, raising his chin cockily, jaw setting.

Dick can only stare.

Obviously, he'd known about the new Robin. He'd practically had a breakdown over it. But there's a big difference between the abstract idea of a new sidekick, and an actual kid walking the halls of Wayne Manor like he lives here, like it's his _ home. _

Something terribly uncomfortable twists in Dick's stomach.

"Hey," the kid says. "I'm Jason. Robin."

That twist gets bigger. He claims the title so confidently, like of _ course _ he's Robin, of course he has a right to the name, to the colors, to something Dick had stripped from him.

"Dick."

The kid blinks at him, looking offended, and normally Dick would find it funny but right now he doesn't feel much of anything, just empty and numb.

"It's my name," he clarifies. The twist gets bigger and bigger, a thought suddenly hitting him. _ What if—_ "Did Bruce never mention me?" He hates how vulnerable he sounds. He can practically picture Slade's sneer.

"He said you died," The kid—_Jason_—says bluntly.

Dick's lips pull into a bitter smile. "Yeah. Everyone thought I did."

That's all. That's all Bruce said, only mentioned his failure. He was right; Bruce replaced him because he failed, he was unworthy to be Robin. That was all he thought Jason needed to know about his predecessor.

"Alfred talks about you a lot," Jason offers, shifting a little uncomfortably. "He said that even though we never met, we were brothers, and I should know about you." His eyes dart away, and then back again. "He said Bruce didn't talk about you because it hurt too much."

It's Dick's turn to look away, squinting off at the wall. Yeah, he can imagine it would hurt, having to talk about your failure of a son—

"Just like how he doesn't talk about his parents, but Alfie does."

_ That _ pulls Dick up short.

"Wait, what?" he asks in confusion. "No, B doesn't talk about his parents because he misses them so much, and he's emotionally constipated so he can't handle the pain of it."

Jason looks at Dick like he's a moron. "Yeah," he agrees slowly, "and that's why he never talks about you, dumbass. It was super annoying sometimes—he missed you like crazy."

Dick stares at him, speechless.

The kid frowns. "Deathstroke really messed you up, huh?"

That startles a laugh out of Dick, probably tinged with hysteria, but it's not like anyone is going to judge him for it. "I—yeah, probably."

Jason hums, the sound far more thoughtful than a fourteen-year-old ought to. "So, did he like—"

"I'm pretty tired," Dick interrupts. He doesn't know what Jason was planning on asking, but he knows that he has no interest in hearing _ or _ answering it. "Eventful few days. I think I'm gonna go to bed. Will you tell Bruce if he comes looking?"

The kid nods quickly. "Yeah, sure, man."

Dick murmurs a thank you and slips past him, opening and shutting his bedroom door behind him.

It is painfully familiar. His _ Flying Graysons _ poster, his stuffed elephant, the chess set Bruce gave him for one birthday, a pile of books Alfred recommended to him...

Nothing has changed, just like the rest of Wayne Manor. Not an inch.

Just him.

He feels tears sting his eyes again, and this time he lets them fall, climbing onto his bed and burrowing in the blankets and pillows. They smell freshly laundered, the same detergent Alfred always used to use.

Dick allows himself five minutes to cry, to mourn everything he lost and how nothing will ever be the same. He allows himself five minutes to grieve the boy who died, the boy everyone misses, the boy he wishes was still around. He takes five minutes to mourn a life he can never go back to.

Then he gets up, packs a bag, and slips out the window.

* * *

_"Dick Grayson's funeral is today," Slade tells him, an amused smile on his lips as he looks down at the paper in his hands._

_ Dick blinks numbly, eyes drifting down to the paper, and then away again. "Oh?"_

_ Slade hums his confirmation. "You were killed in a kidnapping attempt gone wrong, apparently."_

_ He doesn't know why his master is telling him this, other than to just be an asshole, and he doesn't know what response the man is hoping to bring out of him._

_ Frankly, it doesn't really matter. It's just a cover story, anyway. It's just a fake funeral._

_ "What a way to go."_

* * *

He goes to his grave first.

It's a little morbid, he supposes, but he's curious.

It's nice, objectively speaking. Bruce chose a good spot, right under a large cherry blossom tree, a rarity in New Jersey and especially in Gotham. The headstone is clearly well looked-after and there are fresh flowers in a small holder beside it.

_ Richard John Grayson-Wayne_  
_ Beloved son, friend, and partner_  
_ March 21st, 1999 — August 7th, 2015_  
_Forever Missed, Never Forgotten_

He stares at the date for a while, wondering why it was chosen. Did they find something on August 7th, and that was when they "knew" he was dead? Or is it just a conveniently chosen date, after everyone had had time to acknowledge he was dead, and come up with a civilian story to go along with it?

Bruce and Alfred did a good job. If he was actually dead, he'd probably love the way they chose to honor him.

Especially considering the hyphenated last name.

* * *

_"Robin has been officially declared dead," Slade tells him with a smirk, eye on the datapad in his hand._

_ Dick just hums tiredly. "Oh?"_

_ Slade nods. "Quite. Died in battle, apparently. Very heroic." A pause. "They're going to put up a statue of you, honoring their fallen hero."_

_ It makes him feel hollow. "That's nice of them."_

* * *

There's a statue of Robin in Jump City, where he quote-unquote _ died, _ but there's one in Gotham, too, because Gotham always looks after its own.

Considering the people who designed the statue never met him, Dick's shocked by how lifelike it is, how much it looks like him. It makes Dick wonder if Bruce had a hand in it, anonymously or otherwise.

Dick wonders faintly what _ Jason _ thinks of this place.

He decides it doesn't matter at all, because _ Dick _ likes it, and that's all that matters.

* * *

_"That circus of yours has stopped in Gotham."_

_ Dick, currently reaching for two of the swords on the top rack, pauses. He turns to look at his master, brow furrowed. Slade simply raises an eyebrow at him, gesturing for him to get on with his task, which Dick does after a hesitant moment._

_ "Haly's?"_

_ Slade hums. "Oh, yes. Seems they finally heard about their dear child acrobat's death, even a year after the fact. Better late than never, I suppose."_

_ The mention of his so-called "death" never fails to make something twinge in his chest._

_ "Are they staying?" Dick asks, tossing Slade a sword._

_ The man catches the weapon effortlessly, and snorts. "I doubt it. It's a _ traveling _ circus, Richard; they'll pay their respects and move on, just like everyone else." He pauses as he settles into a fighting stance, and then adds, "Well, everyone except for me."_

_ He strikes._

* * *

He moves aimlessly for a while.

He avoids cities that are hotspots for superheroes, offering a helping _ (anonymous) _ hand to everyone he comes across. He doesn't have any destination in mind, doesn't have any goal, just wanders back and forth the US, east to west, north to south, and all the way back again.

He knows Bruce is looking for him, has others looking for him, too, but he's spent five years learning from the best in avoiding heroes, and it isn't too hard to avoid detection, as long as he keeps moving.

When he makes it back to the mid-Atlantic, he stops very briefly in Gotham, just to check in on everyone. He watches Bruce at Wayne Enterprises, Jason at his school, Alfred on a trip to the store. They look healthy, happy enough, so Dick allows himself to leave, deciding to head up towards Boston.

He stops an attempted rape in Bludhaven along the way. Then a robbery. Then helps a kid ODing.

Dick decides to stay in Bludhaven for a little while.

He's been there only two days (in a ratty little hotel room, looking at adds for cheap apartments) when he returns to his room only to see that someone is already there, lounging on his bed. He gets ready for a fight for all of five seconds before he recognizes the head of red hair, longer than the last time they met, but no less distinctive.

"Hiya, Robbie," Roy Harper, _ Speedy, _ drawls, shooting him a smile. "Been a long time."

Dick stares him for a second, then sighs, closing the door behind him and walking further inside. He stays standing, and Roy stays lying down. "How'd you find me?"

That is the question, after all. He's been successfully avoiding heroes for _ months, _ heroes like Batman and Superman, with master detective skills and superhearing. Speedy was never _ stupid, _ but he shouldn't have been able to find Dick if he didn't want him too.

Roy shrugs and sits up now, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and bracing his forearms on his thighs. "Complete coincidence, actually. I was passing through Blud on my way back to New York, and spotted you." He shakes his head, a rueful smile tilting his lips. "Gotta say, it was a bit of a shock, man."

Dick resists the urge to shift uncomfortably. In hiding from all the other heroes, he's also been hiding from his friends.

_(Ex-friends. Ex-teammates? He really doesn't know what to call them, only knows that he's been too cowardly to face any of them.)_

He can't even _ imagine _ what Kori must be thinking.

"It's good to see you, Speedy," Dick says, and he means it. Roy is the only teen hero who Dick had known in both versions of himself, as Robin and Dick Grayson. He'd felt a certain kinship with the other boy, both of them taken in by rich vigilantes and trained to follow in their stead.

Roy's face scrunches up. "Yeah, no. I'm not Speedy anymore. I go by Arsenal, actually."

Dick quirks an eyebrow. Roy laughs a little breathlessly, then rubs a hand over the back of his neck, glancing away.

"I, uh. It's been a rough few years," the archer admits.

Dick snorts. "Tell me about it." He moves further into the room and sits down in the armchair across from his old friend. "So what happened to you?"

"You mean while you were off being a baby psychopath?" Roy prompts, sending him a wicked grin. But there's nothing sharp in his tone, nothing accusatory, and Dick relaxes a bit.

"Excuse you, I was at _ least _a young adult psychopath." He doesn't like joking about it yet, not really, but it feels good to talk to someone who isn't looking at him with pity or judgment over what's happened the last few years.

Roy snorts appreciatively, and then grimaces. "I, uh. Well, I kind of got addicted to drugs." Dick blinks in surprise. Roy barrels on. "It was a bad time. I got really low. Ollie kicked me out, I was on the street doing just about anything to fund the addiction..." He sighs, shakes his head. "I was on my way into the ground, really. But Dinah—you remember Black Canary, right?—well, Dinah dragged my ass to rehab, kicking and screaming."

A fond grin creeps over his face. "I got clean, got my shit together, and took a hard look at what I wanted to be. I couldn't go back to being Speedy, not after everything I'd been through, not with the state of my relationship with Oliver. So I became something new; Arsenal. I've been doing pretty great, too, if I do say so myself."

Dick smiles at him. "I'm glad," he says earnestly. "You were a great hero, one I was honored to fight beside; would be a shame for you to give it up."

Roy levels him with an even look. "I could say the same for you, Robbie."

Dick's smile fades. "I'm not Robin anymore," he murmurs. "I _ couldn't _ be Robin anymore. And I...I don't _ want _ to be."

"So don't be," Roy says simply. Dick frowns at him, and Roy laughs. "I'm serious, it's that easy. Dick, you spent five years with a psychopath killing and stealing." Dick withholds a wince. "You aren't the same person you were when you were leading the Teen Titans, not even close. But that doesn't have to be an entirely bad thing."

He tilts his head, looking at Dick appraisingly. "Answer me this—do you want to be a mercenary? You've spent quite a lot of time doing it, after all."

Dick doesn't need to think about the question at all. "No."

Roy dips his head in a nod. "Great. Next question—do you want to be a hero?"

"I don't know how I _ could _ be."

Roy cracks a smile. "That's not what I asked."

Dick purses his lips and looks away. He considers the question.

Does he _ want _ to still be a superhero? He hasn't been one in so long, barely remembers what it means to be one. But...he's been helping people, hasn't he? It's not like he's been seeking the danger out to take care of it, but he hasn't been able to stand by and just watch it happen.

So that _ really _ is the question—could he live somewhere, _ anywhere, _ and turn a blind eye to people who need help? Could he sit by and get a normal job, a normal life, knowing he could do so much more, knowing that there would be people whose lives were made better because someone was there when they needed them?

He won't tell Roy this, but the answer is _ maybe. _ Maybe he could. Because he's _ tired _ of this life, he truly is. Five years at Deathstroke's side means that Dick's seen more death and pain than almost anyone, and he has no want to see it again. He doesn't want to pick up a weapon to take a bad guy down and worry that he'll go too far on instinct. He doesn't want to be afraid every day of disappointing Bruce.

So yeah, he probably could leave the life.

But that isn't Roy's question. Roy's question is if he _ wants _ to be a _ hero. _

"Yes," Dick murmurs, and meets his old friend's gaze. "Yeah, I do."

Roy smiles, wide and bright and happy. "Awesome. Now you just need a new name, and a place to take up residence." He glances around the shitty hotel room, eyes lingering on the view of the city out the window. "Bludhaven could use a hero, I bet."

Dick smiles back at him, tired and world-weary, and leans back in his chair. "That easy, huh?"

"Oh yeah," Roy agrees. "From one fucked up ex-sidekick to another, Robbie—once you make the choice, it's the simplest thing in the world."

**Author's Note:**

> So I've decided to make a series out of this 'verse! I have three stories planned; one of missing scenes from this story, a sequel involving Dick's future as a hero, and then a third fic that I'm gonna have be a bit of a surprise. So subscribe to [Changing of the Seasons](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576090) if you're interested!
> 
> As ever, I hope you enjoyed :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [i’m no hero / starting back at zero](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24732421) by [Forestfire34720](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forestfire34720/pseuds/Forestfire34720)
  * [Body, Mind and Soul (plus all the other broken pieces)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25114165) by [ForeverWhelmed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeverWhelmed/pseuds/ForeverWhelmed)


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